


Dead Ends

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 02, The Distortion's Corridors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-13 11:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Tim and Martin, lost in the Distortion corridors, don't know if they will ever get out. They might make some stupid choices.





	Dead Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anysin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anysin/gifts).

The corridors, in the beginning, were mundane and boring. Or maybe they only looked like that, with ugly carpets and wallpapers. They were looking for a way out, Tim and Martin - it seemed so hard, losing tiny sliver after tiny sliver of hope, to each door, to each shattered mirror. A normal labyrinth. It looks so easy in retrospect now.

Now every turn seems not only weird but wrong. It could lead to a huge room with uneven floors and walls, and still it's the same corridors, it's just that their width and shape ceased to matter. The corridors are everything, and Martin hopes he would notice if he got out, but he's less and less sure. 

The tape recorder isn't functioning anymore. Martin still keeps it on, hoping that it'll start again if they get close to an exit. Why would the batteries stop when they can't die of hunger? He guesses it's dangerous to play on the nonsense rules of this kingdom, that he should deny them. But it's a hope he wants to keep, and sometimes, he even whispers encouragements to the device.

Martin and Tim keep their fingers interlaced all the time, even when they're so exhausted that they're sitting in a corner failing to sleep. Martin is pretty sure he still has a body, except that by all accounts the thirst, hunger and exhaustion he feels should have killed him at this point. But touching another one - it helps. Squeezing it, feeling the heat. Martin thinks that if he hadn't had this, he would have tried to hurt himself instead. Sometimes it’s barely enough and he steals glances at Tim, the only real human face here. (There are a lot of mirrors but they’re all wrong.)

He wishes he could find the words to tell Tim how much his presence keeps him sane. But every time it started, it sounded like _I'm glad you're here_ and Tim would be right to remind him that if he hadn't wanted to follow Jon like an idiot, neither of them would be trapped.

Martin's joints hurt, and he asks Tim if they can stop again. It’s been days at least, probably weeks, maybe months. There’s nothing he can count.

"Okay," Tim answers. Martin doesn't dare to ask: is it because you're indulging me, is it because you've lost hope of getting out? He just welcomes the rest. He wishes he could close his eyes, but each time, the pictures of the corridors form behind his eyelids, only worse.

He likes the feeling of having a real human hand, squeezing Tim's fingers. It's not enough, so he awkwardly puts his other hand on Tim's thigh, moves the first one up his arm, then on his shoulder. It feels good. Tim feels good. Martin has fantasies about cuddling; it would be so wonderful.

And then Tim grabs his face and kisses him.

Martin's mouth is too dry and he's surprised, but he's trying to make it right. Tim kisses hard and possessive, and Martin just melts. 

"Is this real?" he asks when Tim stops. Or has the madness of this world caught him?

"Of course it is!" Tim growls angrily. "Don't I feel real enough?"

And then he starts tearing Martin's clothes open. Tim is as tired and desperate as Martin is, but his cheekbones, and his hair, and his long fingers, and his lean muscles - he is still hot, that's the point, still far too hot to cling to Martin this way and expose him and look at him with anger and lust.

Martin can't resist him. It's too good, to have his skin against his, his body pinning him against the uncomfortable, not-real-enough carpet. Part of him wishes he had fallen in love with Tim, even if he was out of his league and it would have made him feel jealous all the time. Because then he would feel good right now, feel fully happy, and every pleasant spark in his body wouldn't have to come with regret and guilt.

He wouldn't have to think about Jon now, at the worst time.

And then Tim slaps him.

"Don't do this!" he yells. "Don't lose yourself in your stupid fantasies! Don't you think I can't see it on your face when you're thinking about him? I had to put up with this for years."

He's right. He's terribly right, both about Martin being an asshole, and about here being the worst place to lose yourself into fantasies or unrealized dreams. To imagine Jon would ever touch him this way.

“I’m sorry,” Martin answers. “I want you.” It’s the truth, but he feels wrong, as if he was lying. His cheek hurts just right.

The answer seems enough for Tim. He crawls back, and his tongue plays with the tip of Martin’s cock, through his underwear. Martin moans loudly. He can’t believe he’s living this. He looks down, it’s a need, and he can only see Tim’s hair, as he now softly sucks the head of Martin’s cock. Pleasure makes all his body shiver, he feels more real than he had been since they are trapped here, and despite this something is wrong.

“Please stop,” he begs, grabbing Tim’s hair. Tim ignores him, sucks harder maybe. Martin manages to cry out. “I want to see your face.”

Tim listens this time, looks at him; his lips are red and swollen. But what makes Martin tremble is the intensity of his gaze, so delightful he almost doesn’t miss Tim’s hot mouth on his cock. Almost.

“Please,” he asks.

“You’re very picky. You know, I didn’t especially want my last time to be with you either.”

“It’s not!” Martin protests. “We will get out. I’m sorry, do what you want!”

But Tim still looks at his face. “Do you want me to fuck you hard, to hurt you?”

Of course they have no lube here. Martin swallows hard. “As you wish.”

“I swear, sometimes I have no idea if you’re a masochist or a kicked puppy,” Tim grunts. “It’s not actually my thing.” But he crawls again onto Martin’s body to kiss his mouth aggressively. This time, Martin doesn’t let the surprise paralyze him, and he opens Tim’s shirt, explores his warm skin. His lips are perfect, and his mouth tastes like Martin’s precome, and his eyes are red and burning. Martin opens Tim’s trousers, touches his hard, warm cock. 

“Lie down,” Tim orders. Martin is already half-sprawled against the wall, and he understands - this is not ideal. He finishes lying on his back, even if part of him is afraid he won’t find the wall again. He’s still holding Tim’s cock, stroking it too softly, like something precious.

Tim grabs Martin’s hand, shows him a rhythm he enjoys more. Martin is fast to learn. 

“Okay,” Tim says, looming over Martin, leaning on one forearm only - how can someone get that fit? “we can make it work like this.”

He repositions his legs on Martin’s body, and his knuckles brush Martin’s cock. It feels electrifying, and he gasps. Tim looks quite smug about it.

Soon both Tim and Martin’s cocks are brushing against each other hard, trapped in their right hands. It feels good, healthy and delightful and real, flesh on flesh, reading pleasure on each other’s face. Martin doesn’t close his eyes once. He won’t lose this, reflecting into each other’s eyes, into each other’s pleasure, the only real mirror they can reach here.

Martin comes first, moaning and squirming. Tim follows soon after, falls down on Martin. For a few seconds, Martin feels content, and he hopes Tim feels the same. It’s this hope, actually, that reminds him fully of the nightmare labyrinth they’re imprisoned into. Martin looks for something to say, but all the nice or positive things he could think about seem obscene and condescending when he imagines saying them. He just wraps Tim in his arms. 

“We will get out of here,” he says.

“Yeah, I liked the old prison better too,” Tim answers, “so much more comfortable. Where you can drink tea and your Archivist is there, and you don’t have to cling to me.”

And he bursts out laughing, a bitter, twisted laugh that resonates in the corridors. 

Martin feels hurt, but he only clings harder.


End file.
